


Poetry

by GizmoTrinket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Withdrawal, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Poetry, References to Depression, not a poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 21:05:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12240585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GizmoTrinket/pseuds/GizmoTrinket
Summary: There were few things Sherlock Holmes didn't understand and fewer still were the things he couldn't. In a universe where everyone speaks in poetry Sherlock Holmes can only understand prose. John Watson needed a challenge. Or, at least, he thought he did when he signed up for the military. A bullet and a bandage later the two find each other and a language all their own.





	Poetry

**Author's Note:**

> I read [Obscurity by UrbanHymnal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/790821) and sat down and wrote this. It can't compare to the work that inspired it but that's ok.  
> No beta/no britpick. All mistakes are my own and if you point them out to me I'll fix them. :)

There were few things Sherlock Holmes didn't understand and fewer still were the things he _couldn't_. Some things he didn't bother to learn as they'd serve no purpose later and would therefore take up valuable brain space that might be put to better use. These things were sometimes so plebeian they didn't matter (like celebrity birthdates) other times they were so complicated they'd only be of use to the smallest portion of the population (like astrophysics). Only once did something come up that Sherlock couldn't understand and was valuable and it caused him endless torment. It comforted him, on the darkest nights, that doctor's prose, _"His mind is unique. Singular. Obviously he cannot understand poetry because to him a heart is a muscle while to everyone else it's love."_ Sherlock had written down the poetry the doctor spoke to his mother after, _"A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, a heart by any other name would still beat and a brain by any other name would still ponder."_

\----

John needed a challenge. Or, at least, he thought he did when he signed up for the military. Everything in life was easy for him; with a sentence he could woo a woman from a walkway or a bloke from the bar. Medical school was interesting; it tested his brain to think in the sterile terms of prose. But, it wasn't enough. He needed a rush. The blood in his veins longed to sing. And if his bank account got a boost then all the better.

\----

Chemistry was a welcome respite from the world around him. In the lab one didn't wax poetic about the benefits of hydrogen to oxygen. Well, one could, and often one did to one's attractive lab partner but one would never get anywhere if they were trying that with a one Sherlock Holmes.

Poetry was the language of love. Since Sherlock didn't understand poetry many assumed Sherlock didn't understand love. And though Sherlock was inexperienced in the act itself that didn't make him immune to the feeling.

As far as anyone was concerned Sherlock Holmes didn't feel things that way. Even Sherlock Holmes. Especially Sherlock Holmes. He didn't understand why he needed a seven percent solution to steady himself. Someone might have tried to tell him but if they did he didn't understand. How could he?

When Sherlock was gifted the ornate box containing his very own needle he was brought to his knees. Victor knew how the dance went from there and Sherlock let him lead.

"You burn bright and at both ends, Sherlock Holmes." Victor said as he sent Sherlock from his room that night.

Sherlock left with his gift and a hope in his chest about his new relationship.

\----

In a warzone there's a plethora of poetic inspiration and almost none of it is pleasant. John's blood sang in spurts like machine gun fire and during the downtime he oiled his weapon and hoped that the next time would come sooner and later. They'd all wish for sooner if not for the lament they felt later.

\----

"Time is fleeting but for times like this," The doctor said to Mycroft as they observed Sherlock in the recovery wing.

The withdrawals were so severe Sherlock didn't even bother to scream at the doctor to speak plainly or his brother for putting him here in the first place. This was the best money could buy and the orderlies were paid like it. There was nothing Sherlock had to tempt them and with no sweet words to win his way he suffered. The only comfort he had was that the only orderly that could speak plainly told him the worst was over.

"Time is temptation tomorrow." Mycroft said.

"Tomorrow is a new day and with it a dawn." The doctor tried.

"Ah, but what is dawn if one cannot see light?"

"The joy of the birdsong to those who may listen," The doctor said with a wry smile.

"A rooster cannot hear over his own crowing," Mycroft said with a frown.

"Will you both SHUT UP!" Sherlock shrieked before vomiting.

Mycroft and the doctor left and the last Sherlock heard was the doctor saying to Mycroft, "A rooster crows to celebrate the dawn." And Sherlock hoped that his brother had just lost the verbal spar so that something good came of his suffering.

\----

John was composing an opera. He was on the final act when his scene was cut short by a good shot. A good many poets composed their best when on their deathbed but all John could come up with at the moment was, "Please, God, let me live."

\----

Sherlock's freedom was hard won. The doctors wished to study his affliction in depth and Sherlock would owe a debt to his brother but that he put him there to begin with. Instead Sherlock counted it against Mycroft and used it to up the ante.

And so Lestrade was pulled into the game.

\----

Grey. John could write essays on the word. His therapist tried to get him to which just proved to John that she didn't know the definition.

\----

"One day, Sherlock, you'll thank me for this," Greg said when Sherlock tripped up. They had an agreement: no using or no cases.

When Greg backpedalled Sherlock held strong, "One day, Lestrade, you'll thank me for this."

"But will those souls who suffer, stutter and die thank _you_?" Lestrade asked.

"Everyone makes mistakes. Maybe you'll learn from yours as I have mine." Sherlock recited the line he'd carefully crafted with no small amount of vindictiveness before disconnecting the call.

\----

John had lost the poetry. It was gone. He could smile and he could laugh but nothing came to him when he opened his mouth anymore. Stamford didn't mind but he was the only one, except a mystery maybe flatmate. John never regretted his wish that things be more difficult more than when Stamford walked him into a lab with the most beautiful man he'd ever seen.

John opened his mouth all that came out was prose, and boring prose at that. He sounded like an idiot.

Sherlock, who seemed to only speak in prose and winked when he left. With left John really wrong footed.

When John turned to ask Stamford what happened Stamford said, "One is never ready for a thunderstorm."

And John surprised himself when he said, "That in blackest black the smallest light shines bright and he be a torch greater than the sun."

\----

When Sherlock explained his talent, how he could see what others couldn't he did it in prose. John didn't say anything for a long moment so Sherlock figured John needed poetry. He said, "When I was younger I saw doctors. One of them said, ' _A rose by any other name would smell as sweet, a heart by any other name would still beat and a brain by any other name would still ponder.'_ so you see? You were right. The police don't consult amateurs."

And John knew how easily a beating heart bruised so instead of spouting poetry like he wished to do he simply said, "Amazing."

And Sherlock felt his cheeks and chest warm.

\----

Sherlock wrote things and John spoke because when Sherlock spoke people tried to punch him. At home they'd sit peacefully and speak in half sentences and grunts and gestures. John knew Sherlock was frustrated when he tortured his violin and Sherlock knew John was at peace when he sat in his chair. John would groan when Sherlock's experiment did something unexpected and Sherlock would rub his temples when John slowly pecked out a blog entry. And each Tuesday night they'd settle in for a movie. The colder it got the closer they'd sit until one morning Mrs. Hudson found them sleeping under an afghan so tangled in each other she couldn't tell where one stopped and the other began.

And that morning one woke the other with a kiss and that night they slept in the same bed.

And on their wedding day Sherlock and John spoke their vows and if the crowd didn't understand what they were saying that was ok. 

Because a heart needed a brain to tell it to beat and a brain needed a heart to allow it to think and the roses in the garden weren't the only things that were sweet.


End file.
